I sink down in the bathwater. It's hot, very hot, with a solid bulb of expensive bath oil slowly dissolving near my toes.

I sullenly eat apple and plum crumble, despite my vow not to eat sugar, and drop some into the bath.

I resent having to bathe again.

I bathe twice a week. Go ahead and be disgusted. I don't care. It's enough for me.

Sunday nights and thursday nights. Routine. If I leave it one day longer, my hair gets weird and greasy, and I start emitting strange smells.

I grab the bulb of oil and pull it underwater, rubbing it up and down, up and down my legs.

My legs itch so much. The eczema is scaly and horrible. I forget and scratch it sometimes, and it bleeds in spots.

It extends all the way from my ankles to my crotch. Fortunately it has not spread to my crotch.

This is why the extra bath.

This is why the expensive bath oil.

When I get out of the tub I rub my legs all over with baby oil, and slide into bed, trying to ignore the itch.

It reminds me of my time on the boat, the horrible rashes I endured, and I hate it.

~

Alayna comes to visit.

We go shopping.

She rants about politics. Pro-gun, anti-healthcare.

I drink my gin and soda and listen. Hearing her talk hurts my heart, and I wonder where these opinions came from.

~

A date.

OKCupid.

I know, I know. I'm getting desperate.

He's got an interesting face. Black, Jamaican parents. He wears a collared shirt with a black sweater. It's a British thing, apparently, the collared shirt and sweater. I don't get it.

I'm wearing all black, with expensive gold shoes. They have finally broken in, and I like the way they glow in the dim pub light.

He's telling me something. He gestures with his hand.

His skin is a beautiful shade. Golden brown, with darker pigment in the creases. His palms are pink, and his nails glossy and almost white.

His fingers are long, very long, with slightly bulbous knuckles. I imagine them inside of me, and I can hardly breathe.

~

I wake myself up scratching, one foot braced against the wall, scratching scratching scratching the back of my knees.

I forgot to bathe on tuesday. I forgot to moisturize. This is what I get.

I scratch it till it bleeds, and I can't stop myself.

Sleep swallows me again. The backs of my knees are wet with sweat or blood or something.

~

The night is black, no hint of light, even though it is early evening. I pull the crumpled piece of foolscap out of one of my hundred pockets and check it against the number on the door.

I knock. A young man in a collared shirt and sweater opens it up, smiles charmingly, invites me in, suggests I knife fight the other person who has come to view the place at the same time.

I agree with a straight face. Don't want to offend these English types.

When I leave, I leave pumpkin pie with the four boys. They climb over each other like puppies, peering into the box. The box smells amazing, I know, and I hope it drives them mad.

The next evening, they call me on speakerphone and ask if I'd move in with them.

I agree.

~

The Italian gets laid off. I am secretly relieved.

Below that boyish face was a boyish mind. (In case you were wondering, I found out his age: forty-one.)

He falls for scams. Gets petulant when things don't go his way. He delights in the vaguely sweet shell of ibuprofen pills and tries to chew them, with disastrous results. He drives like a fucking maniac.

He tells me I'm getting paid exactly what I deserve, and doing the type of work I deserve.

I am so angry I can barely breathe, and I barely talk to him for the rest of the ride.

I'm secretly relieved he's gone.

~

The boss calls us into the break room.

"June," he says. Our new lay-off date. Maybe.

My visa is up in June.

Then what?

.

Rosie.

Before&After